remarked.

 

“Miss Russell—I have news to give you.”

 

“Indeed!”

 

“Charles Kent has been arrested at Liverpool.”

 

Not a muscle of her face moved. She merely opened her eyes a trifle wider, and

asked, with a tinge of defiance:

 

“Well, what of it?”

 

But at that moment it came to me—the resemblance that had haunted me all along,

something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kent’s manner.

 

The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylike—were

strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been reminded

that night outside the gates of Fernly Park.

 

I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod.

 

In answer to Miss Russell’s question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly

French gesture.